Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Jade
“Mamma, slow down.”
“…everyone will be watching, Jade,” she continues through the speaker, her voice tight and deliberate.
I lie back against the headboard, listening quietly.
“Your father organized this event specifically for you and Malachi to make your first public appearance as a couple. Everything has to look immaculate.”
“I’m aware, Mamma,” I reply, my tone flat.
“Good. Because appearances matter,” my mother presses, her voice dropping into a hushed, demanding whisper. “How is he with you when you’re alone? Does he actually look at you like a fiancé, or is he as cold as everyone says?”
“Malachi is fine, Mamma,” I say, stepping out of bed to crack the window open, letting the cool night air in. “You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m worrying about how it will look, Jade,” she sighs, her frustration visible even from the other side of the line. “Just ensure you two look united. Your father will not tolerate another public embarrassment.”
“Tell Papà he’ll get his picture-perfect couple,” I say, my voice turning dry.
“Get some rest then. Goodnight, Jade.”
“Goodnight, Mamma.”
After we end the phone call I remain on my back, starting at the ceiling.
The quiet in the room is suffocating. It’s still early to go to sleep and after my mother informed me that my father arranged an event where Malachi and I are supposed to appear as a couple, I lost all chances of getting any sleep tonight.
“I need something sweet,” I murmur to myself and get up from the bed. I head downstairs, my bare feet padding softly across the cold, polished marble of the hallway.
“What’s with that face?” Malachi is already in the kitchen, bathed in the dim, amber glow of the under-cabinet lights. He’s leaned back against the island, drinking something that smells a lot like rum in his workout shorts, his chest bare.
“Is that rum?” I raise my eyebrow, eyeing his mug.
“Yeah, want some?” He picks up the bottle and pours me a glass.
“Thank you.” I take it from him, the glass cold against my palms as I am trying my best to ignore the way his exposed body shines under the low light. Or the way his shorts pull up all the way to his crotch when he sits down, his dick marking the thin fabric, hard and impossible to mistake.
Think about anything else! Mother! Think about your mother.
That seems to work only for a few seconds because the moment he shifts in the chair, the low light catches the dangerous, razor-sharp cut of his jawline and the heavy sculpt of his chest. Heat rushes to my face, my pussy aching with a sharp, needy throb.
“Who drinks rum from a coffee mug?” The question escapes me before I can fully process it.
Who the hell hangs out in the kitchen in nothing but a pair of shorts?
“You didn’t answer my question,” He speaks, his voice a low rumble as he entirely ignores my question. “Did something happen?”
“Not really,” I shrug, taking a sip of rum. “I just spoke with Mamma and she told me that Papà arranged a party for us.”
“I know,” Malachi says, and I find it hard not to stare at the hard, sculpted lines of his chest and the silvery scar across his ribs that are fully exposed.
Every inch of him bleeds dominant, effortless authority, and I hate how instantly my pulse betrays me.
“Your father called me a few hours ago to extend the invitation. A formal request for the power couple to make their debut.”
I freeze, a sudden flash of heat rushing through me that has nothing to do with desire. “He invited you directly? And you didn't think to mention it?”
“I was going to tell you in the morning,” He replies, completely unbothered by my irritation. “I didn't realize you were so eager to play house with me, Jade.”
“I’m not eager,” I snap, my jaw tightening as I glare up at him. “I just don't like being the last person to find out things about my own life.”
“You aren't the last,” he says quietly, his voice dropping into that dark, possessive register as he reaches out, his thumb slowly tracing the line of my lower lip.
“If I’m not the last to know things,” I say softly, keeping my tone sharp, “then tell me where you got that,” I say, pointing to a scar on his front.
Malachi’s jaw tightens, his green eyes darkening as he looks down at me. “It’s old news, Jade.”
“It’s a huge wound over your vitals,” I refuse to let him deflect. “And every time you hear the Devlin name, your eyes go completely dead. What happened?”
He holds my gaze for a long, suffocating minute, as if he’s calculating how much of him he wants to show me.
“Two years ago. Right after my father died,” his jaw tightens as he speaks, the words cold and heavily guarded, “Ronan Devlin’s men thought the Kavanaghs were vulnerable during the transition. They took me. Kept me in a basement for three days before Zeke pulled me out.”
The air in the room suddenly feels thin and suffocating. I freeze, processing the brutal reality behind his words.
“They carved you up and left you alive,” I say, the words burning on my tongue. I remind myself that I should be used to this, that I grew up in this world, but the thought of Malachi being tortured hits me harder than I expected it to.
“A tactical mistake on their part,” Malachi replies, his lips turning into a sinister smile, though his eyes remain icy. “One I’m taking my time correcting.”
“Good,” I say, leaning in closer across the table until the heat radiating off his body touches my skin. “Make sure they bleed for every second of it.”
“Have you ever hurt someone?” Malachi seems to be full of profound questions tonight, and I don’t know if I should leave some details out, or be completely transparent with him.
“No,” I shake my head, remembering when he killed that guy in front of me and the way blood was dripping from his hands after.
His gaze stays on me for a moment, unreadable. “I expected you to be more comfortable with this.”
“I am comfortable with the world I grew up in,” I say, meeting his eyes. “That doesn't mean I enjoy watching people die.”
Before I catch myself and put a stop to my actions, I reach my hand out toward his scar and gently brush it with my fingers, the skin raised, rough, and thick with old trauma.
Malachi reacts immediately, his grip hard around my wrist. He pulls it away from the scar, his touch searing hot against my pulse point, which is fluttering frantically.
“Don’t,” his tone is demanding and superior, dark and heavy with a dangerous authority, only making me want to disobey him even more. “Don’t touch me unless I allow you to.”
“I’m not afraid,” I protest, my breath hitching as the tension in the room snaps tight between us, but he pushes my hand aside, returning his focus to the drink. “Do you always need to be the one staying in control all the time?”
“You are yet to learn how much control I need,” he drops his voice to an intoxicating whisper. His heavy gaze dips to my lips, lingering on the damp bow of my mouth before dragging slowly back up to hold my gaze.
“And if I refuse to obey, what then?” I ask, my chest rising and falling rapidly as my heart hammers against my ribs.
“Then,” he leans closer, crowding into my space until his scent wraps around me completely, his lips almost brushing my earlobe, “I’ll enjoy teaching you to do so.”